Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (28 page)

There were rules and regulations, they told him: He couldn’t just fix up a building and start running a hotel. It was the eighties now, there was a modern system of doing things, and, anyway, this wasn’t some
kampung
where everyone could do what they wished. He had to apply for planning permission for the renovation work; all the electricity and plumbing had to be done by someone with proper qualifications and would need to be inspected; then he would need to apply for a license to run a hotel; he’d need a certificate to show he had done a course in safety and hygiene. All that would take time—and money.

In the meantime, the leaks in the roof were turning the loosened plasterwork to mud on the upper floors, and on the ground floor a flash flood lifted up the floor tiles my father had proudly laid not a few weeks previously, redistributing them in a kaleidoscope of cheap color. Not one to be easily defeated, my father channeled his optimism (and remaining money) into painting the façade of the building, on the grounds that a cheery exterior would give the hotel the beginnings of a new life and lead—somehow—to a turn in fortunes. Although he did not say as much in his letters, I knew that he was waiting for me to return to help him—to save him.

I arrived to find the building clad in bamboo scaffolding, the top half mottled with patches of whitewash that accentuated the dirty gray background. My father had retreated to a small room at the rear corner of the ground floor, where he had erected a canvas camp bed and a two-ring table-top cooker attached to a gas canister. There were streaks of mud snaking faintly across the floor—traces of the flash flood he had mentioned—but otherwise the room seemed dry and sound and cool, and a faint breeze came in through the single glassless window.

The rest of the building was a disaster. As I walked up the staircase that had long since lost its banister, it was virtually impossible to imagine what the interior had been like when it was first built as a hotel (which must have been around the time of my birth—not all that long ago). Partition walls made of thin board lay half dismantled, uneven pyramids of bricks lay piled up in the middle of empty spaces, dried-up pools of not-quite-mixed cement crept across some floors, and there were gaps in the roof that afforded me a glimpse of the gray rain clouds that hung low in the sky. I could not bring myself to ask my father whether it was he who had created this mess or if it had already existed when he bought the building. Nor could I bear to tell him that there was nothing I could do to help him. It was hopeless, just as I feared it would be.

Nonetheless, I spent two weeks with him, explaining how fuses and junction boxes worked, how to create intricate circuits with breakers and multiple switches. I drew designs on pieces of paper, which he admired and kept pinned to the wall in his room as if they were works of art. He learned quickly and praised my knowledge as if I were offering him great revelations; he spoke of how he would have a fridge in every room, and eventually air-conditioning too, how he would be so popular that people would have to ring days ahead to book rooms. I agreed and enthused; it was the best thing I could do for him: to make him believe that his dreams could come true. After
a fortnight of playing around with lengths of wire and patching up holes in walls with flimsy plasterwork that wouldn’t quite stick, I made excuses as to why I had to leave to go back down to Johor. My course would teach me more skills that I could use to help him; maybe I could also learn masonry and plumbing, which would come in handy when the hotel was up and running.

My father could not have been more delighted. Good idea, he said; those skills would be very useful, particularly since I would one day be the sole owner of the hotel, which I could take over as soon as I wanted. He spoke of a fully functioning hotel as if it already existed, as if it were not just a pile of damp rubble. I wondered whether he really believed what he told me or whether he was merely playing along, as I was, in the charade that had become his life.

A
S SHE STOOD UP TO PUT HER COAT ON, PHOEBE TOOK ONE LAST
look around the luxurious place she had wandered into. She had never been in an upmarket beauty spa like this, which looked like something out of a magazine, with low lighting and white orchids standing against dark stone. Even the air was perfumed; it smelled of lemongrass and spicy herbs that cleansed the smoky taste of the pollution that lingered in her nostrils every minute of her day. Sometimes at night when she woke up from a nightmare, she would taste this bitter ash in her mouth. She wished she could stay here longer, absorb the smells and the glorious atmosphere of peacefulness and wealth, but this was not her place, she knew that now. She should not pretend anymore; she should leave and go back to Yanyan.

She put her coat on and began to walk slowly to the door, but then she heard footsteps behind her, a hurried clack-clack of heels on the hard floor, and when she turned around there was a woman standing in front of her, wrapped up in a thick sand-colored coat and a soft blue scarf. Although Phoebe could see that the clothes were very expensive, she thought that the woman looked very unstylish, honestly, like a country farmworker who had been given a new outfit without thinking whether it suited her. Her short hair was dull and a bit greasy; she probably had not even washed it that morning. She was obviously someone who did not spend a lot of time taking care of her feminine appearance. She was holding a slim black
briefcase and an umbrella, and her face was crumpled in a frown. She looked at Phoebe, her eyes falling to Phoebe’s shoes, before glancing at the clock on the wall.

“You’re very late,” she said to Phoebe. “I was just going out. Next time, if you want to reschedule a meeting you have to give my PA more than forty-eight hours’ notice.”

Phoebe tried to think if she knew this person, but she was sure she did not. She tried to think of a response, but all she could think of was “Sorry.”

“Sorry, sorry. That’s what everyone says these days as an excuse for their lack of professionalism. If you keep changing appointment times, if you are so unreliable, how are you going to make a good receptionist?”

Phoebe looked down at the floor. She repeated, “Sorry.” She didn’t even know why she was apologizing to someone she had never met before.

The woman looked at her watch. “I suppose you still want an interview now? It’ll have to be quick, because I have another appointment over in Pudong. And I’m never late for my appointments, unlike many people.”

“An interview,” Phoebe repeated blankly.

The woman sighed. “Yes, but I can give you fifteen minutes maximum. To be honest, for a receptionist’s job there’s not much I need to know from you. Besides, I already have an idea of your approach to punctuality.” She turned and walked behind the counter, opening a door that led into a series of small rooms lit by stark fluorescent lighting—a bare sitting room with cheap armchairs, a microwave oven and drinking water dispenser, a storeroom full of towels and plastic bottles full of liquid, and, finally, an office that smelled of fresh varnish and paint.

“The building work isn’t quite finished, but we need to start business later this week. Our first bookings are for this weekend, so I need someone who can begin work immediately,” the woman said, sitting down in a large black leather chair and gesturing to Phoebe to sit in the chair across the table. Phoebe took off her coat but noticed that the woman did not do so; she did not even take off her scarf.

“So frustrating when people cancel at the last minute. I had a receptionist lined up, contract signed, everything settled—then she rings up and says she’s found a job at a new hotel that opened opposite Jing’an Temple. Just like that. Now we need to find a replacement in only four days. People say that Shanghai is the place of limitless opportunity because you can find people willing to work at anything—what nonsense!
People here are so picky. Pay’s not right, they’re off the next day. Work environment’s not comfortable, they’re off too. New boyfriend, they disappear. Ask them to work extra hours, they go to your competitor. Sometimes they don’t turn up for work because they’ve argued with their husbands the night before. I don’t know … I think people here are becoming like Westerners.”

“I agree,” Phoebe said. “Shanghai people are really quite arrogant. I don’t think they are unreliable, but maybe they are too proud of themselves. They are not lazy like Westerners; they are
rich
like Westerners. That’s why they can be picky—because they can afford to be. If they don’t work that well, it’s because they have options; they are always thinking of things outside work. People only work well when they are desperate, I think. When they have no other option for happiness. Well, I mean, that’s just my opinion.”

The woman looked at Phoebe for a moment before reaching for a ring-bound file on the desk. Phoebe noticed that the skin on her hands was dry and scaly, and her nails were cut short—she did not even have nail polish to disguise how cracked and unattractive they were. “That’s an interesting point of view,” the woman said. “You’re not a Shanghai local, obviously.”

“Of course not,”
Phoebe said in the Shanghai dialect. She had learned a few phrases since arriving here, but it was such a harsh and difficult language that she could not master even its most basic sounds. “No, I’m from the far south. Guangdong province. But I’ve lived here for some time. That’s why my accent is strange.”

“I see. I don’t really care where people are from—what’s important is that they can do the job,” the woman said, flipping through her file. “Remind me what your name is, please? I can’t remember which candidate you are—we got so many, and I don’t think my PA printed off all the résumés for me.”

“Xu Chunyan,” Phoebe said. The name from the ID card she’d stolen two months previously came so easily to her. She had repeated it and repeated it, preparing for a time like this, when she would need to say it as if she had been born with it.

The woman traced her finger down a list. “Xu Chunyan, Xu Chunyan … no, I can’t find you. No matter—you seem quite bright, even if you are not very punctual. Why don’t you just tell me what experience you have. I can always find your résumé later.”

Phoebe found she could lie so easily—the list of imaginary jobs she had done came so naturally to her that she did not hesitate for a second. Even as she described one job function, a new one came into her head, and she found herself recounting skills she never knew she had. Bookkeeping, PowerPoint, Excel—things she had heard of but never experienced.

“It sounds as if you’ve had some quite important positions,” the woman said. “Are you sure you want to be a receptionist in a spa?”

“To be totally honest with you, I would like a change of direction; I would like to work somewhere more sophisticated than a big office. Besides, like you, I’m sort of, well, fed up with these arrogant Shanghai people!” She said that last bit in a hushed voice.

The woman laughed. “I know what you mean. It’s a great city, but life here is not easy.”

“I’m just joking, but I knew you would know what I meant. You’re not local either, are you?”

“No, I’m from Malaysia—although if you’re from Guangdong, you’re as much a foreigner in Shanghai as I am.”

“True,” Phoebe said. “Malaysia, huh? I knew your accent sounded familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“What I mean is, I’ve known many Malaysians in my previous workplaces. Well, to tell the truth, I once had a Malaysian boyfriend, not for long, though. It must be nice over there. I would like to go someday.”

The woman closed her file and scribbled on a notepad. “Can you speak English?”

“Of course,”
Phoebe said. “
No problem
. And I’m learning French too.”

“Ah, bon, tu parles français?”

“Actually I have not yet started, I’ve only just bought the book.”

The woman wrote something on the notepad and finished by drawing a double line firmly under what she had written. Phoebe tried to peer over to see what it was but could not quite make it out. “I like your attitude,” the woman said. “I like people who always try to improve themselves. Why don’t we start you as a receptionist; then, if you prove yourself capable, we can move you on to more duties, maybe administration or managerial roles given your background. But let’s see how you get on with answering the phone and dealing with clients—it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s very important.”

“Yes. Knowing how to deal with different people and situations is the key to all successful business,” Phoebe said, remembering a line from one of the books she had read.

“Hmm,” the woman said, smiling as she fastened the buckle on her briefcase. “You’re obviously a person who takes her work seriously. That’s good. When would you be able to start?”

“I can start anytime. I believe in responding swiftly and positively to all work demands.”

“Excellent, Miss … Xu.”

“My friends call me by my Western name, Phoebe.”

“That’s a nice name—we’re anticipating a number of foreign clients, so it’ll be easier for them to pronounce too. Hopefully you’ll build up relationships with them and encourage them to return.” They stood to leave the office. “One more thing, Phoebe: Can I take a few copies of your ID for our files please? Sorry to be troublesome, it’s just that I like everything to be in order. Besides, I can’t afford to risk breaching any regulations. We were going to hire a Filipina girl, very charming, excellent English and decent Mandarin, lived here for over three years so I assumed her position had been, well, normalized. Turned out she was illegal.”